Jihad

CHAPTER 80

“I think Dr. Ramil could certainly use some rest,” Kevin Montblanc told Rubens after he returned from the White House. “On the other hand, I think he feels embarrassed by what happened and wants to make amends. He asked about his patient — he still calls him his patient.”

“Was the incident in Istanbul an anomaly, or can he no longer take the pressure?” Rubens asked Montblanc.

“I don’t know. I’d recommend giving him a few weeks off. When he comes back, I could reinterview, observe him for a while. We might even send him on a training exercise to see how he holds up.”

The problem was, Rubens needed him right now. The doctor who had been standing by with the team in Detroit had come down with the flu and had a 104° fever. The Art Room had two military doctors available as backups, but Rubens much preferred using one of his own people for security reasons.

Still, if Ramil wasn’t up to it, there was nothing he could do.

“What if I needed to use him right away?” said Rubens.

“Well, in that case I’d keep an eye on him. If you really needed him.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs in the squad room. I said you wanted to talk to him.”

“Very good.”

Ramll sipped the iced tea, letting the cold liquid fill his mouth before swallowing. The squad room — the ops’ nickname for the large lounge where Desk Three missions were debriefed — had the air of an English country club, with thick leather furniture and a variety of amusements. It was also quiet, off-limits except to Deep Black ops and the few people who worked directly with them. Ramil felt quite comfortable here, calm and alone. Safe.

What would a mental breakdown feel like? Something similar to what he had experienced in Istanbul, he thought, but it would last much longer. His was only temporary, a burp — he’d been tired.

“Doctor, I’m glad to see you made it back,” said William Rubens, striding into the room. He pulled a leather club chair over and sat on the edge, pitched forward like a dentist on a stool about to examine his teeth. “How are you feeling?”

“More relaxed. I think I was overstressed by the heat and the jet lag.”

“It was considerable stress.” Rubens nodded. “Perhaps you’d like a long vacation.”

“No.” Ramil felt his heart begin to race. “I’m fine. Where do you need me to be?”

“I don’t want to push you beyond your means.”

Ramil felt angry, as if Rubens had called him a coward.

“I’m quite capable,” he said. “It was a temporary glitch. You know the brain is a sensitive organ. Too much stimulation — too much adrenaline, a change in the blood flow — we react. We have to react. I’m over it.”

Rubens stared at him.

“I’ve been through much worse situations,” Ramil told him, striving to make his voice as conversational as possible. “I can’t tell you how many times I had to operate while we were being shelled.”

Actually, he could — fifteen in total, though only two had been truly scary.

“Morris is sick, I heard,” added Ramil. “So I should be there, in the background, in case anything goes wrong. I’m familiar with the patient. He has a heart condition. We don’t want to lose him.”

Rubens frowned, ever so slightly, but Ramil had seen that frown before; it meant he agreed, though with reservations. Desk Three did not have unlimited resources; it carried as many doctors as Art Room supervisors, and the latter were considerably more important to the success of any given mission. If Ramil didn’t go, Rubens would have to bring in a doctor who, even if he was on active military service — not likely in the States — would not have passed the rigorous security and background checks the NSA routinely required of even contract employees. Worse, Rubens would have no direct control over the doctor, since he would answer to a military commander. And Rubens was nothing if not a control freak.

“Ms. Telach will make the arrangements,” said Rubens finally. “If possible, I’d like you to leave within the hour.”

“Where am I going?”

“Detroit. Asad bin Taysr arrived there an hour ago.”